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  ALICIA’S POSSESSION

  Colette L. Saucier

  Erotic Romance

  Secret Cravings Publishing

  www.secretcravingspublishing.com

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  A Secret Cravings Publishing Book

  Erotic Romance

  Alicia’s Possession

  Copyright © 2013 Colette L. Saucier

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-61885-742-2

  First E-book Publication: June 2013

  Cover design by Dawné Dominique

  Edited by Julie Reilly

  Proofread by George Smith

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  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

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  Dedication

  To Valerina, Patia, and Sondra – Cheers, ladies!

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  ALICIA’S POSSESSION

  Colette L. Saucier

  Copyright © 2013

  Chapter One

  The house on Lilac Lane did not speak to Mason as he rounded the cul de sac and spied the front porch through the sparse woods, not far from the road. His tires crunched upon gravel as he turned his car along the circular drive. He had always prided himself on his uncanny knack of being able to assess the inhabitants whenever he was called out, but not tonight. The nondescript façade remained tightlipped, perhaps smirking at him—sent on a fool’s errand. He hadn’t been out on a suspicious incident call since he’d been out of uniform, but power had its privileges. If a congressman’s daughter got spooked by a firecracker, send a detective out to do a deputy’s job.

  Mason pulled up alongside the Audi parked outside the closed garage, and the outside light brightened as it detected his motion walking up the front steps. He pressed the doorbell but became impatient after half a minute with no response. As he rapped his knuckles on the ten-foot heavy oak door, he almost wished he were still in uniform so he’d have a nightstick for knocking. The door opened to reveal a lanky man, perhaps six feet four, with deep-set eyes and thinning salt and pepper hair.

  “Mr. Pageant?” Mason asked him.

  “No, Pageant is my wife’s maiden name. I’m John Meador. Dr. Meador.” He opened the door further for Mason to enter.

  “Detective Crawley. I understand you think you heard gunshots?”

  “Not exactly. I’m afraid you might have been called out unnecessarily. Can I get you some coffee? I assume you can’t drink on the job.”

  “Thanks, no. What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?”

  “My wife thinks she heard gunshots, from across the lake.”

  Meador walked through to a bar set up against one of the few walls in the open floor plan, and Mason followed. The house had been tastefully decorated with furniture expensive enough to appear inviting and comfortable. A plush mocha suede couch divided the living space, and artwork and artifacts from around the globe graced the walls, shelves, and tables. Long windows interspersed with French doors ran along two walls. Although the twilight inhibited the view of the water, Mason knew the narrow bend of the lake bordered the house on both sides, and he stared out beyond the glass toward the dimly-lit homes on the other side.

  “So you didn’t hear anything?”

  “No, I wasn’t here at the time, but I’m sure it was nothing.”

  “What makes you think that?” Mason asked, facing the man who stood jingling the ice in his rocks glass.

  “Do you know about my wife’s accident?” When Mason shook his head, M
eador continued. “It was in the news. Car accident. She was in a coma for nearly two months. She’s only been home from the hospital a few weeks, but with the head injury combined with the drugs she takes for the headaches—plus, I think she was drinking with her medication—I don’t think we can place too much trust in anything she might say.”

  Just keeps getting better and better. Maybe he should take him up on the offer of a drink since there was no job here to do. “Can I speak with your wife?”

  “She’s changing. She’ll be out in a minute.”

  “When did the alleged incident occur?”

  “I think around two, she said.”

  “This afternoon?”

  “No, this morning. She says it woke her up.”

  “Why didn’t you report it earlier?”

  “I wanted to,” said a female voice behind them, “but John spent all day trying to talk me out of it.”

  Mason turned to face the woman and knew one thing immediately—she did not belong with that man. At least a full decade younger. Petite with dark hair, chocolate eyes with irises almost as dark as the pupils dilated in their center, pink lips perfect for kissing, and pale skin, which warmed with a blush that quickly receded. Pretty—almost too pretty, and could have been cut from that superficial socialite/debutante cloth if it weren’t for the profound sadness emanating from her, giving her depth. A woman-child with the appearance of vulnerability, of needing protection. More than likely, someone would need protecting from her.

  She stood before Mason without him even registering that she had walked toward him, although he hadn’t taken his eyes off her, and extended her hand. “I’m Alicia Pageant.”

  “Detective Crawley,” he said. Her grip was firmer than he would have expected from such small, soft hands, and he noted her use of her father’s name, already wielding her birthright of authority. Still, he released her hand reluctantly. “Congressman Pageant’s daughter?”

  “The former—not the current. After my father’s death, his wife assumed the position, but my step-mother and I are not on the best of terms. But I won’t bore you with stories of family dysfunction.”

  “Er, yes.” Although not one to keep up with politics—or even much news—Mason had a vague recollection of Congressman Pageant going down in his Cessna several years back and his young wife being appointed to his seat, but she was correct. That had nothing to do with why he was there. “You reported hearing gunshots.”

  “John thinks I imagined it, but I know what I heard—and what I saw.”

  “You saw something? I thought the sound of shots woke you up.”

  “John, would you get me a glass of Bordeaux please?”

  John met Mason’s eyes with a tilt of his head and brows raised. “Should you be drinking with your medication?”

  “Damn it, John, I can handle a glass of wine.” She turned and flopped on the couch with an impatient sigh. Resting her elbow on the arm of the couch, she closed her eyes and laid her head against her palm.

  Mason took the chair to her left and leaned toward her. “Maybe you should listen to him. He is a doctor.”

  She laughed and glanced up at him with unsmiling eyes. “I haven’t turned to stone. Yet. He’s a doctor of geology.” Under her breath, she added, “Pretentious prick.”

  Meador handed her a glass filled halfway with dark crimson wine. “Here you are, darling.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Thanks,” she said and took a sip then turned her attention back to Mason. “The shots woke me up, but this morning I watched them.”

  “Who?”

  “The neighbors. The woman who lives across the lake, or her accomplice I suppose.”

  Her husband scoffed and shook his head. “Where were you, Dr. Meador?” Mason asked.

  “He doesn’t live here,” Alicia answered for him. “We’re getting a divorce.”

  “We’re just taking some time apart,” John said, but Alicia shook her head.

  “Mrs. Mea…Pageant,” Mason said, “please just tell me what happened.”

  * * * *

  Alicia stared past the detective toward the French doors as she recalled the events of the previous night. Then she glanced down at the wine glass cupped in her palms, a twin of the one she had been holding that evening.

  She had poured a glass of Bordeaux, grabbed her Kindle, and made her way out to the sofa on the terrace. An imminent headache would preclude her reading soon enough, but for the time being, she wanted to enjoy the solitude and the surroundings, as much as it was possible for her to find pleasure in anything. Fingers of light through the trees from the setting sun cast glitter across the lake, and a chorus of frogs, crickets, and cicadas provided the background music.

  Perhaps half an hour had passed when the yelling disrupted her peace, not the first time she had heard the couple who occupied the house at a slight diagonal across from hers screaming at each other. Although she could not make out the words, being privy to such intimacies made her uncomfortable and, for some reason, embarrassed—an unwitting interloper to their strained relationship.

  Alicia attempted to focus on her novel, but both the pitch and the volume of the woman’s voice continued to rise just before the crash of breaking glass rang out. She flinched at the sound then imagined what it might have been. A vase? Liquor bottle? Wedding china? The plot of her novel couldn’t compete with the drama across the lake. Unable to tolerate her own eavesdropping any longer, she retreated into the house.

  She didn’t know what time she had fallen asleep while reading in bed, but when she was awoken by an echoing crack, her eyes popped open wide and went straight to the clock. 2:13. Before she could close them again, a second shot rang out. Was it a gunshot? She sat up in bed, her hand reflexively rising to cover the throbbing pain on the side of her head. The third shot erupted, she thought from across the lake, but how could she be certain?

  She stood up and peeked around the curtains of her bedroom window, the house of the arguing couple clearly visible with most of its interior lights on. Odd for this time of night, but perhaps the shots had awoken them as well. Then, one by one, each light went out, and the house disappeared into the darkness.

  Her head still pounding, she walked into the kitchen area and turned on the light to get her Ultram and a glass of water then became keenly aware that anyone outside could see her, fully illuminated, through the surrounding windows. She flipped off the switch and grabbed her cell phone, debating whether or not to call 911. What could she tell them, really? She couldn’t even be certain it had been gunfire or where it had originated. She recalled the photographs from the Kennedy assassination with heads turned and fingers pointing toward the grassy knoll—a misdirection that fueled conspiracy theories even to this day. Heavy with pain and exhaustion, she decided she lacked the motivation to get dressed and deal with policemen for uncertainties. She double-checked the burglar alarm then went back to bed with phone in hand.

  Alicia tried to remain still, willing her headache to go away, for the pain pill to take effect, but she could only doze off and on. Not long after she’d gotten back into bed, another noise pulled her from it, and she stood once again, still groggy and rubbing her eyes, staring out her bedroom window across the lake. A silhouette emerged from the side of the house, struggling to carry what appeared to be a large duffel bag. The car parked beside the house had its trunk open, and the shadow hefted its load into it and slammed it shut. Alicia watched as the shadow disappeared into the house before she returned to bed.

  When the dawn began to creep through her curtains, her desire for coffee surpassed her dedication to sleep. Since being released from the hospital, Alicia had come to enjoy drinking her coffee outside by the lake with the newspaper, but before she made her way out to the terrace, her attention was once again drawn to the neighbors as someone walked out of the house, climbed into the car, and drove away. Alicia returned to her morning routine and was sitting outside with the thick Sunday paper when the car rolled up a few hours lat
er, and the woman she recognized as one of the occupants got out and went inside. Alone. Over the course of the morning, Alicia kept an eye out for the husband—she assumed it was her husband—and though she could see the woman’s form milling about in and around the house, he never returned.

  * * * *

  Mason had listened to her story, jotting down a handful of notes and only interrupting a few times to ask for clarification on a particular point.

  “I had decided to call the sheriff’s office,” she said, “but then John got here and said I shouldn’t bother, that it’s probably nothing.”

  “He’s probably right,” Mason said. The combination of pain killers and wine, being alone, too many movies or police procedurals, had more than likely fed her imagination. “So you’ve never met the couple before?”

  “Um…no, they must have moved in while…”

  “They moved in while Alicia was still in a coma,” Meador said in a condescending tone.

  Alicia’s gaze dropped to the glass in her hand, her cheeks flushed. “Yes, John, I was in a coma. I had a head injury. But that does not change what I saw or the fact that I have heard them arguing repeatedly or that I heard gunshots.”

  “What you think were gunshots.”

  Mason closed his notepad and stood up. “Mr. Meador, you’re probably right, but it won’t hurt for me to go over and ask a few questions.

  Alicia jumped to her feet and came close to colliding with Mason—close enough for him to catch her clean scent with a hint of honeysuckle—and he stopped just short of grabbing her arm. “But don’t you need to investigate or something?” she asked. “Won’t she be suspicious?”